


Terrible Influences

by nishizono



Series: Principles of Morality [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is pretty sure he's become one of those terrible influences he's been trying to warn Sherlock about, but it's better him than some stranger off the street. Unfortunately, he's not sure Mycroft would agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lestrade wakes up with his cock buried in Sherlock's arse.

“What the fuck?” Lestrade gasps and makes a grab for Sherlock's hips. He's still not completely awake, and he thrusts on instinct a couple of times before he realizes what's going on and tries to lift Sherlock off his cock.

“It's fine, it's fine,” says Sherlock. He's already out of breath and rocking on Lestrade's prick. “I put one on, it's fine.”

Lestrade shoves a hand down between them to feel for the base of the condom. It's nice and tight around his cock, and he breathes a sigh of relief, but he doesn't pull his fingers away. Sherlock's hole is slick with lube, and Lestrade pushes a finger inside, right up next to his cock. He can feel the band of muscle clenching around his knuckle, and he wriggles his finger a little to loosen Sherlock up.

“ _Fuck_ , Greg.” Sherlock gasps and stops moving altogether. His chest is heaving and his cheeks are flushed, and he looks almost exactly the way he did the first time Lestrade made him come.

“You're loose,” says Lestrade, his voice gravelly with sleep. He's got half a mind to just throw Sherlock down and fuck him until they're both bruised, but he's fascinated by the way Sherlock's eyelashes are fluttering. He twists his finger a little and whispers, “What were you doing before you woke me up?”

“I got the next one in,” replies Sherlock. He starts moving again, easing himself up and down until Lestrade gives in and thrusts into him. “I started with the-- fuck-- with the small one, and then I-- I uhm--”

It's amazing to watch Sherlock fade away like this, to see him reduced to something half-mindless and aching. Lestrade pulls his finger out and grabs Sherlock around the waist.

“I did it right next to you,” says Sherlock, panting softly. He moves his hips like poetry. “I was-- god, I was here right beside you-- fucked myself loose for you with-- _Christ_ , Greg...”

The thought of him lying there with a dildo up his arse, trying to be quiet...

Lestrade takes him by the shoulders and shoves him down on his back. Sherlock's eyes fly open, and he struggles until Lestrade bites his neck. Once Sherlock goes still except for the tiniest rocking of his hips, Lestrade pulls away and sits back on his heels. The movement shoves his cock even deeper into Sherlock, who gasps and grabs at the sheets.

“How much do think you can take?” asks Lestrade as he hauls Sherlock's arse into his lap. He's buried to the balls in Sherlock's body, but it's still not far enough.

“More-- more, I can take more.” Sherlock gasps. “I want your finger again. Come _on_ , Greg.”

“Just my finger?” asks Lestrade. He pulls back nice and slow, then pushes a finger into Sherlock, right beside his prick. It's a tight fit, but nowhere near what it would've been if Sherlock hadn't stretched himself first. Once he's buried deep, he gives Sherlock a minute to adjust, then says, “Put your legs over my shoulders.”

The new position lets him thrust even deeper, and he stays there for a second with his balls nestled in the cleft of Sherlock's arse. He grabs Sherlock's hand and presses it hard against Sherlock's abdomen.

“Can you feel that?” asks Lestrade, guiding Sherlock's hand in little circles. “Can you feel my cock inside you? That's me fucking you.”

Sherlock whimpers.

Lestrade is all set to keep talking, to tell Sherlock what a good boy he's being, when the phone on his nightstand rings.

“Ignore it,” Sherlock begs and wraps his legs around Lestrade's waist.

And Lestrade _does_ ignore it until the machine picks up and Donovan's voice says, “Detective Inspector? I'm sorry for calling you at home. I know it's supposed to be your day off, but there's a situation here at the office. There's a man here called Mycroft Holmes. Apparently, he's that freak kid's brother. He says he wants to talk to you about the time the kid's been spending at your flat. I told him you didn't--”

Lestrade bends Sherlock in half as he reaches for the phone. Sherlock whimpers, and Lestrade claps a hand over his mouth. He grabs the receiver with his free hand, and he's a little out of breath when he answers, “Sally? Hello?”

“Oh, there you are,” says Donovan. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, it's fine, I just got out of the shower and had to run to pick up the phone,” replies Lestrade. He can't believe how low he's fallen in just a few months. He's got his cock inside an eighteen year old boy while he's on the phone with an employee, and even worse, he's lying about it. Not that he really has a choice.

“Sorry, I'll make it quick,” says Donovan. “There's a man here--”

“Yes, I heard, Mycroft Holmes,” says Lestrade.

Sherlock's eyes narrow, but Lestrade keeps him from trying to comment by slowly pulling out and then thrusting back into him. Sherlock's eyelashes flutter, and he makes a stifled mewling sound against Lestrade's palm.

“He's apparently with the government, but he won't say how. He wants to talk to you about the freak.”

“Stop calling him that,” says Lestrade, but then Sherlock pulls him deeper, and Lestrade wonders if maybe that's not an apt nickname after all. _No one_ should feel that good inside.

Donovan launches into a tirade about Sherlock and Mycroft, but Lestrade isn't listening. Sherlock has apparently decided to pick up where they left off, because he's rubbing his belly again like he really can feel Lestrade's cock inside him through his abdomen. Lestrade is proud of himself that he doesn't make a sound as he slowly pulls out and then thrusts back inside hard enough to make the bed creak. Sherlock grunts through his nose and shoots Lestrade a _look_ as he wraps his fingers around his prick.

Lestrade is having none of that. He makes a perfunctory “mmhm” sound when Donovan pauses for breath, then cradles the receiver between his shoulder and ear. He keeps one hand over Sherlock's mouth and uses the other to pin Sherlock's wrist to the bed. Sherlock makes a frustrated sound and glares at him, but Lestrade just smirks and doesn't move.

“Anyway, will you talk to him?” asks Donovan.

Lestrade knows that he should probably say no, seeing as he's balls-deep inside Mycroft's kid brother at the moment, but Sherlock's sense of humor must be catching, because that's exactly why he says, “Yeah, put him on.”

Sherlock makes a passable attempt to kill him with a glare.

“This is Mycroft Holmes,” says Mycroft. The man sounds nothing like Sherlock, and Lestrade already knows they're going to hate each other. “I'm sure you know why I'm calling.”

“Actually, I don't,” says Lestrade, and lets go of Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock immediately tries to push him off, but Lestrade shoves his hips forward, and Sherlock shudders underneath him.

“I don't approve of my brother spending so much time at your apartment.”

“Your brother is safer here than he would be on his own,” says Lestrade, and he means it. He might not have lived up to his own standards of morality, but at least he's keeping Sherlock safe. There's no telling what else Sherlock would get up to if left to his own devices.

Or at least that's what Lestrade keeps telling himself.

“Be that as it may,” says Mycroft, “I can't help but find it suspect when a man so many years Sherlock's senior has no one else to spend his time with.

“What exactly are you implying?” asks Lestrade. The phone is slipping against his shoulder, and his fingers are cramping over Sherlock's mouth, so he gives Sherlock a _look_ and takes his hand away.

To his surprise, Sherlock doesn't make a sound. He does, however, kick his heel against Lestrade's back.

' _Stop it_ ,' mouths Lestrade.

Sherlock smirks and does it again.

“I'm not implying anything,” says Mycroft, although his tone makes it clear that he _is_. “I just worry for him. There are so many terrible influences in the world, and although he's bright, he's also impressionable.”

“Impressionable, hm?” Lestrade stifles a laugh at Sherlock's scowl. A second later, he fights a moan when Sherlock locks both legs around his waist and pulls him deeper.

“I won't stop Sherlock from spending time with you,” says Mycroft, as if he could manage it if he tried. “I will, however, hold you personally accountable for his well-being whenever he's at your residence.”

“Of course,” says Lestrade, allowing himself a moment of filthy affection. He slides two fingers into Sherlock's mouth. “But you don't need to worry, Mr. Holmes. Sherlock is in good hands.”

Mycroft makes a noise of disbelief, but says nothing. A second later, Donovan comes back on the line.

“What an arse,” she says in a hushed tone. “Did you get it sorted out?”

“As well as I could,” says Lestrade, distracted by the slide of Sherlock's tongue across his fingers. “I've got to run, though. Bye.”

He makes a mental note to apologize later for his abruptness, then hangs up and tosses the phone aside. It hasn't even hit the floor before he's growling and biting Sherlock's neck.

“You--” Sherlock gasps. “You should have offered to spy on me.”

“Shut up,” says Lestrade, grabbing at Sherlock's thighs. “You're always a bit of trouble, aren't you?” He digs his fingernails in and shoves his hips forward, and he's rewarded by a stuttering moan. Part of him wants to keep teasing-- wants to wring the orgasm out of Sherlock until he's begging for it to stop-- but he's been pushed into impatience. He fucks Sherlock with hard, quick strokes, accompanied by the slam of the headboard against the wall and Sherlock's helpless moaning against his lips.

“Ge-Greg, I can't--”

“That's the point,” growls Lestrade, grinding into Sherlock's arse, and Sherlock comes apart underneath him. He strokes himself just once before tensing up and coming in thick spurts all over his belly and his chest. He clamps down hard around Lestrade's prick, so hard it almost hurts, and bends his head back so far that Lestrade can't help but suck on his throat.

It's Sherlock's little sob that sets Lestrade off. He feels the vibrations against his lips, and he shoves in one last time. He grunts against Sherlock's skin when he comes, filling the condom and wishing there was nothing but skin.

After, when he lurches forward and rests his whole weight on Sherlock without realizing it, Sherlock doesn't complain. He just slides his fingers into Lestrade's hair and cradles the back of his skull, wheezing until Lestrade gets his bearings and moves.

“Sorry,” says Lestrade, finding Sherlock's lips with his own. “Sorry, I didn't mean to--”

“It's fine,” whispers Sherlock, still carding through Lestrade's hair. “It's fine, Greg.”

Lestrade's not sure what they're _actually_ talking about, but he knows it's not his accidental crushing of Sherlock. He lifts his head and touches their noses together, and lets Sherlock play with his hair until they can breathe again.

“My brother--” starts Sherlock.

“Is a pompous arse.”

Sherlock stills.

Lestrade opens his eyes and finds Sherlock staring at him with something that looks shockingly like surprise. It's gone as quick as it came, but Lestrade can't help but feel a momentary triumph. The only time he's ever been able to truly catch Sherlock off guard is when they're fucking.

“He _will_ follow through with whatever he's threatened,” says Sherlock.

“Then we'll just have to be more careful.”

Sherlock stares up at him, and Lestrade can't figure out why, but then-- then he _gets_ it, and he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to explain, doesn't know how many more ways to say it. He'd thought Sherlock understood that this isn't a one-act play.

“Clean up,” says Lestrade, brushing a kiss across Sherlock's mouth. “I'll make breakfast.”

“Greg, wait,” says Sherlock, catching him by the arm when he's halfway out of bed. Lestrade hovers there, braced somewhat awkwardly on one hand and one knee, and waits patiently while Sherlock looks away. There's a long, heavy silence, and then Sherlock looks up at him again and says, “I'll have coffee this morning.”

“Done,” says Lestrade. He leans down and kisses the tip of Sherlock's nose, and when Sherlock huffs and pushes him away, he wonders if Sherlock even knows how much more it would take to get him to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

“You,” says Sherlock, “are one of the most contradictory men I've ever met.”

Lesrade is standing at the kitchen sink with his hands braced on the worktop. His mood had changed as soon as he'd left the bedroom and was no longer distracted by sight of Sherlock sprawled naked across his sheets. It's not that he doesn't mean what he said about making this work despite Mycroft's interference; on the contrary, he means every word, and that's why he has to consider the potential consequences. He'd never assume to outsmart either Holmes brother, but he can at least get a head start on dealing with the possible fallout.

He sighs and lifts his head to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. He somehow manages to look disdainful despite wearing nothing but one of Lestrade's shirts. It's distressingly sexy.

“I'm sorry if I need a minute to think after having just fucked my eighteen-year-old boyfriend while his brother was on the phone,” says Lestrade.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose and crosses the room to inspect the kettle, which is just beginning to rumble. “ _Boyfriend_ ,” he repeats, like the word tastes bad in his mouth.

Lestrade feels oddly stung by that, and he crosses his arms defensively. “You're the one who came up with the word, not me.”

“You asked me to move in with you.”

Lestrade frowns. “Are we really having a row right now?” He's honestly a little distressed by how rapidly the morning is degenerating. It's not like he and Sherlock have never fought before, but it's always been for a specific reason. Right now, they seem to be sniping at each other just because Mycroft's call has disrupted their fun, and Lestrade doesn't like it. He doesn't want to lower the standards of what they consider to be worth an argument.

Sherlock cocks his head and gives Lestrade a look that could pass for contrite, then kisses him on the mouth. When Lestrade doesn't respond, Sherlock huffs, “You're meant to be the adult,” and then kisses him a little bit harder.

Lestrade tries not to smirk.

“You're transparent,” says Sherlock, but gives in to the goading anyway. He slides his hands over Lestrade's bare stomach and presses close. His mouth is open and hot against Lestrade's, and he moans when Lestrade bites his lip.

“Can we take a break from working you open?” asks Lestrade, slipping his hands down Sherlock's back. He gets a handful of Sherlock's arse and squeezes, then does it again when Sherlock shudders. He feels for the base of a plug and finds nothing, just the remnants of lube on Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock doesn't reply, but he does bite Lestrade's jaw, which Lestrade thinks probably means yes.

“I haven't fucked you in the kitchen yet,” says Lestrade. He lifts Sherlock onto the worktop and pulls Sherlock's legs around his waist. He dives in for another kiss, then breaks away to say, “I should spank you for waking me up like you did.”

Sherlock tenses against him and shudders when Lestrade pinches his nipple. He grabs at Lestrade's hair and says, “You want too many things at once.”

“You've got no idea,” growls Lestrade, but he knows what Sherlock means. For all of Sherlock's capacity for multitasking, he's easily overwhelmed when it comes to sex.

Lestrade is bending Sherlock backwards and sending the biscuit tin toppling when the intercom by the front door buzzes. Lestrade pauses to frown at Sherlock, who pulls a face and pushes him away.

“That will be my brother,” says Sherlock, sliding down off of the counter. “He'll have gone straight from the station to my flat, then come here after finding it empty.”

Lestrade is already setting the biscuit tin to rights and trying to will his erection away. He doesn't feel nearly as flustered as he probably should when he replies, “There's nowhere for you to hide.”

“You're assuming I intended to hide.”

“Sherlock,” says Lestrade as the intercom buzzes again, “I'm not--”

Sherlock cuts him off with a wave. “Please, Greg, as if I intend to let my brother know we're sleeping together. But he already knows I'm here, and it will raise suspicion if we try to pretend otherwise. I'll bring the sheet and your pillow to the couch. You may as well let him in.”

Lestrade nods and goes to answer the intercom, not just because Sherlock is brilliant and Lestrade trusts him, but because he's got no better alternatives. He pushes the button and tries to sound unassuming when he says, “Hello?”

“Don't insult my intelligence, Detective Inspector. We both know you know it's me.”

Lestrade opens his mouth to reply, then thinks better of it. He's not having an argument through a bloody intercom. He mashes the button to let Mycroft into the building, and stands there waiting with a scowl on his face. 

He's a little surprised that Mycroft has dropped by himself, to be honest, instead of sending a team of C06 specialists to fetch Sherlock. Lestrade has never met the man in real life, but he's heard enough from Sherlock to know that Mycroft usually has other people do his dirty work. 

Disdain doesn't keep Lestrade from fixing his hair, though. 

He does not, however, put on a shirt.

Sherlock comes out of the bedroom with a sheet and Lestrade's pillow, as promised. He's taken Lestrade's shirt off, and he's wearing a pair of his own trousers. He flashes Lestrade a look, then disappears back into the bedroom.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” mutters Lestrade sarcastically. “Please don't trouble yourself. I'm sure your brother and I can make the necessary introductions.”

There's a rap on the front door, and Lestrade opens it with a sigh, not bothering to hide his irritation. Seeing Mycroft in the flesh, however, draws him up short, and it takes him a second to realize he's staring. 

Mycroft is three times Sherlock's size. He's wearing a navy blue suit and carrying a silver-topped cane, and he actually looks rather well put together for an overweight man who's just climbed four flights of stairs. He carries himself the same way Sherlock does, with squared shoulders and a lifted chin, but that's the extent of their similarities. Where Sherlock's eyes are keen, Mycroft's are beady and suspicious.

Lestrade hates him on sight.

“Hello Detective Inspector,” drawls Mycroft as he pushes past Lestrade and into the flat. “I'm sure I needn't tell you that I've come to collect my brother.”

 _We'll see about that_ , thinks Lestrade as he shuts the door behind Mycroft, and just like that, his irritation becomes something different; it becomes harder, and calculated, and cold.

He's mentally preparing for war.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade follows Mycroft into the flat just as Sherlock wanders out of the bedroom. Sherlock looks tousled and sleepy, and he's scowling in a way that makes Lestrade want to kiss him. Before Lestrade can think of an opening line, Sherlock says to Mycroft, “You should be awarded a medal for your interest in my welfare.”

“Consider your tone, little brother.” Mycroft replies. He slides his coat off and drapes it over his arm. It's amazing how a man his size can look so graceful. He narrows his eyes at Sherlock, then glances at the jumble of blankets on the couch.

“What were you expecting to find here? Chains?” Sherlock plops down in Lestrade's favorite chair. He curls his toes in the carpet and yawns. Lestrade isn't sure whether he's taunting Mycroft or making a point that he's relaxed. Maybe both.

“I didn't set up a flat for you just to have you spend all your time at someone else's.”

Sherlock huffs and drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Your benevolence is heartbreaking, Mycroft. Really.”

“Sherlock.”

“You set it up to watch me.”

To his credit, Mycroft doesn't try to deny it. “I have every right to watch you, Sherlock. You're my brother, and we both know the sort of trouble you get into when you're left to your own devices.”

“Until you send one of your government babysitters to mind me.”

Mycroft glances at Lestrade, then back at Sherlock. They share a _look_ that Lestrade can't quite decipher, and he's getting tired of being left out of a conversation taking place in his own bloody sitting room.

“You know,” Lestrade comments, leaning against the back of the sofa, “the public used to have more faith in law enforcement.”

“Detective Lestrade, with all due respect, I'm hardly the general public, and you're hardly acting within your capacity as a law enforcement official. Unless it's standard practice for London police to entertain half-naked teenagers in their apartments?”

“Isn't it funny how a few words can make a situation sound sordid?” Lestrade says. Honestly, there's not much that could make the situation any more sordid than it already is, but Mycroft doesn't need to know that.

Mycroft eyes him silently, but Lestrade has practice getting stared down by Holmes men. Finally, after a long pause, Mycroft says, “Then tell me, Detective Lestrade, why is it that a man your age is spending so much time with an eighteen year old?”

It's on the tip of Lestrade's tongue to say, ' _because no one else spends time with him_ ,' but he doesn't, not for Mycroft's sake, but for Sherlock's. “Because he wants to be here,” he replies instead. “And because I don't mind him being here. He sleeps better, and I can make sure he eats. Funny, I thought we went over this on the phone.”

“You're not his family, Detective Lestrade.”

“Maybe that's why he spends so much time here,” Lestrade replies evenly. He knows exactly who he's talking to and the kinds of things Mycroft could do to him, but that's less important than how he feels about Sherlock. 

The look Mycroft gives him should make him nervous, but Sherlock looks so pleased that Lestrade can't feel anything but smug. 

“And where do you sleep when you're here, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, although he's staring at Lestrade.

“Usually naked at the foot of Greg's bed,” Sherlock says calmly. “Sometimes he collars me and chains me to the foot board.”

Lestrade nearly chokes on his own spit, but he manages to collect himself enough to say, “I sleep on the couch, and Sherlock sleeps in my bedroom.”

“That's very magnanimous of you,” Mycroft says blankly. 

Lestrade gives him a thin smile. He wants Mycroft out of his house. Just seeing the man in his living room makes his skin crawl. 

“Do you feel better now?” Sherlock asks Mycroft in a saccharine tone. “I know how much you enjoy meddling.”

Mycroft shoots Sherlock a look, then shakes out his coat and puts it back on. “There's a career fair at the embassy next week,” he says placidly. “I expect to see you there.”

For just a second, Sherlock looks like a normal, petulant teenager. “A _career fair_ , Mycroft? Do you ever tire of insulting me?”

Mycroft gives Sherlock another look, then turns and brushes past Lestrade. 

When he's almost at the door, Lestrade says, “Give us a ring next time, and we'll make sure tea is out.”

Mycroft pauses to look over his shoulder. His smile makes Lestrade want to punch him. “Thank you, Detective. I'll be sure to give you ample warning.”

Lestrade watches him go, and when the door is shut, Sherlock comes to stand beside him. Lestrade puts an arm around his shoulders. “He'll have my phone tapped before the morning is over, won't he?”

“Yes.”

“He didn't put up much of a fight about bringing you home.”

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise. “He never planned to bring me home. He wanted to confront you in person and see how easy you'd be to intimidate. You did a passable job, by the way.”

“Coming from you, that's a compliment.”

“Mm.” Sherlock nods without a trace of humor. 

“One question, though,” Lestrade says, forehead wrinkling. “Why did we tell him I sleep on the couch? Why not the other way around?”

“Because that's what an ordinary person would say if they were lying. The best lies are the ones that call the liar's judgment into question. The more innocent you make yourself appear, the more unbelievable the lie becomes.”

Lestrade glances down at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. “You're a bloody heart attack, you know that?”

Sherlock chuckles and turns to Lestrade, putting both arms around his neck. He kisses Lestrade almost chastely, and plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. It's oddly sweet, especially from Sherlock, and Lestrade doesn't quite know what to do with it.

“My brother won't stop bothering us until he finds something incriminating,” Sherlock says quietly.

Lestrade isn't sure if that's a statement or a warning, or maybe Sherlock's way of admitting he's worried. Either way, Sherlock's right, and Lestrade can't think of a counterattack, so he just squeezes Sherlock's hips. “We'll deal with that when it comes,” he says. “In the meantime, come help me with the tea.”

Sherlock heaves a sigh. “Don't you ever worry about contingency plans?” he asks peevishly. “For a detective, you have a very lax attitude toward disaster preparation.”

“We're English.” Lestrade pulls back to look down at him. “Tea _is_ our contingency plan.”

The corners of Sherlock's lips twitch, which Lestrade considers a success.

“Come on,” Lestrade says, giving Sherlock a tug toward the kitchen. “I'll start the kettle if you'll rinse our cups.”

Sherlock sighs again, because heaven forbid such a brilliant mind be tasked with something as mundane as housecleaning, but he weaves his fingers through Lestrade's and squeezes.


End file.
